WHEN I USED TO CARE WHAT PEOPLE THINK

As told to Rishe Deitsch

Courtesy of Hamodia Magazine

Not for reprint

Our First Mistake:  We Didn’t Pay Attention

     When our son Moishy, third to the youngest of eight children, was in the early primary grades, there were no signs that he had difficulty learning in the classroom.  By the time that he reached sixth grade, however, he was misbehaving, and he also had a hard time getting along with the other boys.

     But we were so preoccupied with Benny, our handicapped son, that it was almost impossible for us to deal with Moishy’s problems, which at the time seemed insignificant compared to Benny’s struggles.  This was in the early 1980’s and there was nothing ion our city then for frum kids with Benny’s handicaps.  He was home all the time, and I was busy with him day and night.

     By the end of Moishy’s sixth grade year, we had become accustomed to receiving calls from his Rebbeim.  They would complain about his disruptive behavior in class, about his test scores, about he acted towards the other boys at recess.

     I thought that I could smooth things out by buying him gifts to motivate him to behave or at least to keep him occupied; I often blamed the teachers for being boring, not well prepared or trained.

     Over two decades have passed and now I have some perspective.  In retrospect, I should have sought help.  Perhaps a professional would have discovered that he had ADD.  He could have been treated.  He could have excelled in school and had the right friends.  He could have felt normal.

     Instead, preoccupied as I was with Benny and concerned as I was about impressions, shidduchim, and other social pressures, I swept all Moishy’s problems under the rug.  “These problems will pass,” my husband and I reassured each other.  Naively, we believed each other.  We had to.

The problems don’t go away; They grow

     When Moishy entered eighth grade, it was time for him to enter mesivta.  We naturally assumed he would enter the same mesivta where his older brothers had excelled.  How could Moishy have ever lived up to their shining reputations?  Today, I can only imagine the pain of growing up in their shadows.  He didn’t even stand a chance.

     As Moishy entered his teens, unable to absorb what he was learning in class, he started doing crazy things, desperate for attention.  He behaved like a daredevil and suffered injuries.  He made up fantastic stories about his teachers and the other boys.  Apparently, he just wanted us to focus on him and to help him.  But we didn’t realize that.

     Besides Benny’s condition, there were other problems at home.  My husband’s business partner of many years defrauded us.  The business fell apart, and we lost everything.  Naturally, we were horrified by this turn of events, especially devastated when it turned nasty.  My husband became sick from the betrayal.

     Through it all, Moishy still tried to get us to understand him.  But we didn’t.  We kept expecting him to understand us.

Solve the Problem—Send Him to Israel

     By the third year of mesivta, the hanhala called us to a meeting about Moishy.  After describing the problems, which we could not deny, they had a suggestion: “Send him to Eretz Yisroel.”

     Why they or we imagined that problems like Moishy’s would disappear in Eretz Yisroel, I really don’t know.  But Moishy wanted to go, and it was expedient.  So he went.

     But his undiagnosed and untreated ADD followed him there.  Moishy was not able to sit for eight or ten hours a day and learn.  We paid for him to have private tutors.  We called our friends and relatives in Israel and made sure Moishy had plenty of invitations.  But his problem was not that he needed a home cooked meal.  Until the root of his problem was dealt with, all the threats and gifts and tutors and invitations in the world would not help.

     By the time Moishy turned seventeen, his yeshiva had had enough of his shenanigans.  The mashgiach had tried to be mekarev our son but to no avail.  He called us and spelled out the stark truth: “Your son does not belong here.”

     The idea of having a son thrown out of yeshiva was foreign to us—and frightening.  We were in the midst of marrying off Moishy’s older siblings.  What would happen to their shidduchim if it became known that we had such a son?

     By now we had become experts at sweeping problems under the rug.

     He’ll outgrow it,” my husband told me.  “This is teenage shtick,” I replied.

     And we believed each other.

     We had to.

One Accomplishment, At Long Last

     Moishy’s entire group of friends was expelled.  The only reason he was not expelled along with them was that he had come home for Pesach the day before the mass expulsion took place.  But we were told that if he returned, he would be out within fifteen minutes.  We had to find a new yeshiva for our son.

     A handicapped child…a dissolved business partnership…my beloved elderly mother’s sickness…all these challenges in our family had overshadowed Moishy’s undiagnosed ADD, but by the time he was ready to enter yeshiva gedolah, he had accomplished at least one thing: we were finally seeing his deterioration as a big problem in our lives, too, at least as big as our other problems.

     We found a yeshiva gedoah in Eretz Yisroel.  This yeshiva accepted our son, but we did not know then that their policy at the time was to accept almost everybody…and then to pay attention only to those who could accomplish.

     While our son was officially enrolled as a full time student in that yeshiva, in reality he was more of a club owner.  His apartment, which he shared with other boys “in” the same yeshiva, became the nightly party room for all his new friends, offering music, cigarettes, and heaven only knows what else.  The partying would go on all night, until the exhausted group finally went to bed in the morning.

     We started getting calls from friends and relatives in Israel to let us know what was going on.

     “I saw your son yesterday…he doesn’t look like he’s part of any yeshivah.”

     “The neighbors are complaining abut the noise all night.”

     Finally our son called us and said, “I want to come home.”

     Moishy came home, and we started applying to yeshivos in the U.S.  He was accepted into one, and after six weeks the Rosh Yeshiva called.   Only this call was different;  the Rosh Yeshiva said something new:  “I think your son has ADD.”

     We took him for an evaluation, and our super intelligent son, voracious reader, was diagnosed with ADD.  But by that time he was twenty one, and completely disenfranchised.

The Last Straw

     Our son was diagnosed at last, but it was too little, too late.  At this point Moishy was not interested in treatment.  Instead, he found another way to escape his pain: drugs.

     I can say it now without choking on the words.  Our son became a drug addict.  He began dressing very strangely and acting even more strangely.  We lost all control.  He did as he wished, and we were going out of our minds.

     Things deteriorated to the point where I was praying he would be caught and arrested for the possession of drugs.  I didn’t know how else he would stop.  My husband saw my agony and felt compassion toward me, which made him angrier at Moishy.  Finally, he did the only thing that he could think of—he told our son to leave. A cousin of ours offered him a place to sleep at night, and that’s where he ended up at night.  During the day…?

     There is a man who devotes his life to “recruiting” boys from the streets and trying to save them.  He got hold of our Moishy.  Then he got hold of us.

     “Rehab is his only hope,” he told us.

     I will ever forget the day we placed our son in a rehabilitation facility—far away from home.

     I will remain forever indebted to the man who rescued Moishy from the streets as well as the individual who took the next step and accompanied him on his long journey to the rehab center.

Far, Far Away

     For the first three months, we were allowed no contact at all, not even a phone call.  Finally, it was time for us to visit.  My husband was too heartbroken, so I went alone.

     When Moishy first walked into the room, I did not recognize him.  He bore very little resemblance to my beloved son.  He was detached, cold, reserved…as if we were strangers.  We went to a restaurant, we talked, but we remained strangers.

     This was the climax for me.  On the outside I looked the same, but I was determined not to repeat my mistakes.

Lessons Learned

     When Moishy was growing up and we were dealing with multiple family problems, I had expected him to be the mature one, the one who would be patient and understanding, in view of the circumstances.

     I wasn’t going to do that again.  After eighteen months in rehab, Moishy was ready to rejoin civilization.  He was twenty two years old, and would soon be living near us, not with us.  I knew it was now my turn to be the mature and understanding one in the relationship.  I knew I had to reach out to him and be the stable, kind, accepting parent, the parent who is truly there for her child even when she has other important things to deal with.  I had to be the parent who says—not just with her eyes but with her mouth—“Nothing and no one is more important to me than you.”

      So when Moishy returned, I made a fresh start.  I told myself, and I tell you, dear reader;  This is my son.  My home is open to him.  No matter how he looks, no matter what he does or says—this is my son.

     Whenever I see him, I give him a hug, even if he is waiting for me on his motorcycle in front of my workplace, which is in the heart of a busy frum neighborhood.

     I no longer care about what people will say or what they will think.  When I see pain in my son’s eyes, I no longer try to sweep it under the rug.  I care deeply and eternally about my son, and it is my job as his mother to let him know that.

     I am succeeding, thank G-d.  Moishy feels my love and acceptance of him.  How do I know?  He comes home often.  He brings his friends.  They are from nice homes though you could never tell.

     They come for two hours on Friday night, and we welcome them and thank them wholeheartedly for coming.  We feed them.  We have Shabbos together.  I don’t think about what they will do afterwards, but for at least these two hours they are tasting Shabbos and not eating treif.

     My son has a job doing menial labor.  I know he could do much more than that if he would get treatment for his ADD, but this is his choice for now.

No One Is Immune

     This can happen in the best of families;  it does.  It happens in the worst, too!  It happens in all types and sizes of families.  There is always pain, and guilt, and blame.  I’ll share with you what I try to tell myself—don’t dig into the past.  You can’t change whatever you did or didn’t do.  Be proactive and pragmatic.  See what you can do now.

     Never ignore your child’s pain.  Ignoring does not make things better.  Don’t reject your own flesh and blood.  If you are worried about the other children, discuss it with a Rav.  If he advises that it is best for him not to live at home, than arrange a safe shelter for your child.  Make sure that he knows that you are taking care of him, and spend time together in a way that works for him.

     I believe strongly that Moishy will come back.  Maybe not all the way back, but he will come back.  It may take months, it may take years.  Nobody promised me anything.  But the Rebbe, the Baal Ha’Tanys zy”a, did say, and I believe, “Ah Yid—nit er vil, nit er ken, zein upgerissen fun Elokus.”  (Loosely translated, this means that every Jew eventually seeks to return to his roots.)

     Just as I am not giving up on my child no matter what, so too the Eibershter is staying with me…and with you.

     Thank you for reading my story.